


when the sun goes down (and no stars light the night)

by Elenothar



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Eve is a good friend, M/M, no really this isn't a happy fic, the boys manage to be adorable despite everything, though they put her through a lot of shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tragedy doesn't make exceptions for Double-0 agents, or the Quartermasters they're not-so-secretly in love with. </p><p>A tale of the struggle that brings two people closer together than ever (than even imagined), but at a cost neither of them would willingly pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when the sun goes down (and no stars light the night)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was partly inspired by the movie Bright Star - so blame Ben Wishaw (and his stupid perfect face) for this angsty monstrosity (I certainly do) .
> 
> Please keep in mind that this is unbetaed and that I have no medical qualification whatsoever, which basically means that I used a LOT of creative license with this plot scenario.

_*_

_“Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, ‘it might have been’”_  

*

James Bond is born on a stormy Thursday. The man who will in time become Q is born on a mild Monday, fifteen years and exactly one week later.

*

Q gets caught in a rainstorm a few months after what is now generally termed ‘That Incident’ in Q Branch. The one with Bond, or rather, the one with Bond and the late M, since James usually seems to be involved in some (usually large) capacity whenever another shit-storm hits MI6, requiring a need to differentiate.

He’s walking home, wanting to avoid the tube at the height of rush hour (despite his rather impressive pay check he hasn’t quite managed to kick his life-long habit of being something of a skinflint, which means he doesn’t bother calling a cab), when the sky fairly erupts above him, never mind that the sun had been shining just an hour ago – but that’s London for you, rightfully named one of the more finicky cities. Of course Q isn’t carrying an umbrella and ends up thoroughly drenched in seconds, still quite a ways out from his flat. Being jostled by countless other Londoners on their single-minded quest for home hasn’t exactly helped his spirits, either. When he finally makes it through the door into the blessed dryness and warmth, he’s a wet, shivering mess.

His first thought is that he better not get a cold, there’s enough work to be done without the added handicap of sniffling all over the place, thank you very much. The second is that _maybe_ he should really start paying more attention to the weather forecast in future. The weather, after all, is one of the few things he can’t control with the help of his laptop.

*

The coughing fits begin two weeks later (he should probably thank Lady Luck for the reminder that no, Q really _isn’t_ worthy of her attention) - he's been feeling a little under the weather lately, but this is the first over sign of actual sickness. Naturally he goes to work like nothing’s happened. He’s _fine_ anyway, as he somehow has to keep telling practically everyone passing his desk. Apparently MI6 workers are a bunch of hidden worry-warts (and unaware of this strange malady called a simple cold). Though, admittedly, it _would_ be nice if he could stop coughing for more than a few minutes at a time, and maybe someone could turn the thermostat down a little.

By the time lunch is over, most of his department keep shooting him worried glances when they think he isn’t looking.

He ignores them – and that goes pretty well until one of them has the bright idea of calling for reinforcements and Eve shows up, eyes sparkling dangerously as she catches sight of his probably slightly bedraggled look.

“I hope there’s a _really_ good reason why you’re here and not at home in bed,” she says, about one part worried and three parts threatening.

“Um,” he says and looks down at the surely very important bit of code he’s currently typing. Something about a firewall? “I’m fine and, as it happens, this actually _is_ important.”

Eve glares at him some more – yep, she still hasn’t changed her terrifying ways one whit – before giving him a brisk nod. “Fine. But I’m going to come check on you in a few hours and if you’re still here, I _am_ going to kick you out.”

He’s pretty sure he mumbles something vaguely assenting, concentration already focused back on his work.

About three hours later, Eve returns as promised, takes one look at him, and turns on her heels (literally, she’s wearing fiery red high heels which presumably only look half as dangerous as they actually are).

It’s probably a sign of how tired he is that he doesn’t bother wondering what she’s up to.

“That is not playing fair,” he complains a few minutes later, when he catches sight of her again – and her back-up, in the form of James Bond of all people.

The Double-0 has always been something of a soft spot of his, even before they’d started to casually have regular sex four months ago – which of course means that it isn’t casual at all (as far as he knows this might as well be the longest James has been intimate with the same person), but he tries not to think about that too much. Perhaps putting one’s whole career on the line following one word of an agent he’d only known for a few days and still, inexplicably, trusted doesn’t allow for anything else.

“We’re at MI6, Q. I don’t know where the hell you got the notion that anyone here plays fair,” she points out, smiling slightly despite her still obvious frustration at his obstinacy.

James stays quiet, just regarding Q with that piercing gaze of his that always makes him want to squirm, though it’s an urge he stubbornly refuses to give in to. James really doesn’t need that sort of ego boost. Q glares back at him stubbornly, all the while frantically trying to keep the cough that’s building in his chest from erupting and ruining his whole cover.

“You look like hell,” James finally says bluntly, and with typically horrendous timing Q starts coughing as soon as the words have left the agent’s mouth. Q only just manages to raise his arm fast enough to direct the cough into his already much-abused sleeve.

Admittedly, the coughing fit leaves him feeling a little woozy, which might explain why he misses the slight tell-tale widening of James’ eyes when Q finally lowers his arm from his face. He doesn’t, however, miss the tightly controlled alarm in the other’s voice when he demands, “You’re going to medical, Q. _Now_.”

Q is in the middle of forming a protest that _for the thousandth time he’s fine_ , when his gaze grazes his sleeve.

Oh.

The little specks of blood on the cloth would explain James’ insistence. Q is no idiot and, generally speaking, coughing up blood is hardly a good sign.

Q might has well not have bothered even thinking about this – James doesn’t seem in the least interested in waiting for his acquiescence anyway, for he simply strides over to Q before he can formulate his next move and proceeds to honest to god _lift_ him up into his arms. For a moment Q considers the possibility of some kind of hallucinogenic or crazed dream, but the arm he pinches definitely sets his pain receptors off.

And then his train of thought is derailed thoroughly because James’ arms are gentle for all their strength and Q finds himself snuggling against his broad chest in contentment… good grief, he must be more fevered than he’d thought. He considers struggling for a moment, but soon concedes that it probably wouldn’t do him any good, despite the threat of complete mortification later when everyone at MI6 has seen pictures of him being carried by 007 of all people, like some damsel in distress. His slightly hazy mind points out that he, in fact, _is_ something like the damsel in distress in this situation, and then proceeds to not find that very troubling at all until he firmly tells it to shut up. He might like James a little (okay, a lot – and the sex is fantastic), but that doesn’t mean he has to act like some kind of pining teenager.

They reach medical before his argument with himself is over.

The staff employed here are doubtless some of the best and the examination doesn’t take very long. The doctor is far too used to death and loss to let his face give anything away, but somehow Q’s heart sinks regardless. He’s suddenly having _a very bad feeling about this_ and judging by the way he perceptibly twitches behind him, James has similar thoughts.

For once, Q wouldn’t have minded being wrong.

The doctor talks, matter of fact and to the point. Q’s mind fragments after the first few shattering words. Tuberculosis. A rare illness now, an antiquity (and what does that help _him_??). Immune-system already compromised. Apparently having worked with dangerous (and illegal - not that he'd cared) chemicals for a while as a teen had wreaked mostly latent heavoc on his body's natural ability to defend itself from infections and the like, also rendering conventioanl attempts to cure him useless, which now comes back to bite him in the ass). Chances of survival low. Effectively terminal.

He flounders (how could he bloody _not_ ), dread and denial swirling through him like a torrent. For a moment he fears he’s going to pass out – and then there’s James, a supporting hand on his back, another on his arm, a presence, an anchor to the world in which he is _not yet dead_ ; later Q’ll find himself appropriately grateful. Now he simply leans into the touch without thinking, taking what comfort he can, uncaring of the fact that he’s probably outing their, well, whatever they have (they’re both not big on labels, and so far Q’s done his best not to drive James away by any unwise declarations – ironic, now that his time is running out). Most tellingly James doesn’t protest, just tightens his hold as he steers an unresisting Q out of medical.

*

When he finally emerges from his panicked stupor because _sod it all_ , he’s still the bloody Quartermaster of MI6, and while he’s certainly entitled to a small break-down on finding out that he’s in all probability going to die, there are things he has to attend to.

Like the Double-0 who is currently loading him off onto the sofa in Q’s apartment – which he doesn’t remember getting to – for example. Perhaps it’s the fact that James seems to have aged ten years in the time Q has been in shock that makes Q realize, with another unwelcome cold plunge of his stomach, that he’s not the only affected by this by a long shot – finding out that the person one’s spend basically all one’s free time with for four month is suddenly dying would entitle anyone to a panic attack of their own, but Bond being Bond would of course force himself not to give in to the urge.

Q suddenly remembers a snippet of conversation his ears had picked but which hadn’t penetrated through his shocked mind at the time. He remembers someone asking, “What now?” and James, glacier calm, answering, “Tell M I’m taking care of him. I’ll call in later.” There had been absolute surety in James’ voice, and something Q is hard pressed not to classify as fierce loyalty and protectiveness.

By being no more helpful than a limp noodle he’s letting James down – the burden of caring for Q shouldn’t be on his shoulders, should _never_ be on his shoulders. With this new purpose, some clarity returns to his mind. He frowns at the quilt James’s draped over him (when did that happen?) and then frowns harder at the other’s notable absence.

His legs still feel a little shaky, but they support him. Satisfied for now, Q pokes his head into the kitchen in search for his wayward lover first, then into the bedroom, finally tries the bathroom, and then has to take a deep breath to steady himself.

James is leaning on the sink, his grip harsh enough to whiten his knuckles. His head is bowed, obscuring his face from Q’s view, but there’s obvious tension all along his arms and back. Something painful twists in Q’s stomach at the sight, not the cold dread that had taken residence there ever since the doctor’s verdict, but a hot, stabbing pain that, for all that it makes him feel more alive, proves far harder to bear.

“James,” he says quietly, and the other’s head whips around so fast Q has trouble tracking the motion. For a moment he sees James’ eyes, filled with more anguish than he’s ever seen gathered in their depth – it sends another painful jolt through him, a guilty one this time, since it _is_ kind of his fault James is going through this – but then James’ usual mask slides back into place, with what Q guesses to be an effort of will worthy of a medal. Absurdly, he feels something akin to flattered for a second, that he’s managed to crack 007’s icy façade this much, but the thought is as fleeting as he’s ashamed of ever having thought it, in the face of their shared crisis.

“You should be resting,” James finally says, his voice gravelly, as if he’d silently screamed his lungs out. Another mental image Q really could’ve done without. He only now notices the decanter of whiskey next to the sink, as James’ hand goes for the irregularly full glass.

He’s not going to protest – James’ drinking has never been a point of contention between them (it’s just something he _does_ ) and anyone would deserve a stiff drink right about now. In fact, “Give me some of that?”

James studies his wan smile for a moment before taking a deep swig and handing the glass over without comment.

They end up on the couch, cuddled together without speaking, the decanter getting emptier and emptier. Q figures he can’t do much more damage than the illness is about to inflict on his body anyway, and James, well, James needs a way to cope. Alcohol and nearness seem as good a solution as anything.

*

For a while Q can still live normally, if having an invisible death sentence hanging above his head, near permanent coughing, and occasional fevers can be called normal. At any rate, he’s still at home and sometimes at work, where he’s forced to slowly wean himself of his projects and his job as Quartermaster. He does so supremely grudgingly; no one can claim that Q didn’t (no, _doesn’t_ – as far as he’s concerned, he’ll go to his grave still doing so) love his job.

James for his part, has taken to hovering around Q at all possible times – whether he’s irrationally afraid that if he lets Q out of his sight he will spontaneously die, or he just feels better playing overprotective guard-dog Q can’t say. The whole thing is partly annoying and partly endearing, but Q is careful not to complain, letting James cope the best he can in his own way.

His first scheduled check-up goes something like this:

James drags him there, kicking and screaming (metaphorically of course, he does still have _some_ dignity left), only to then glare at the doctor the whole time. By the end the poor man is little more than a nervous wreck – one can be trained for some things, but an hour of facing 007’s coldest stare is bound to wear down even the thickest of skins.

Basically, the diagnosis stays the same, they have a slightly more accurate time window now, and there’s still nothing they can do, safe for prolonging his life a little past the expectations.

It’s at this point that he notices James’ fists clenching and unclenching, the only outward sign of any kind of distress the agent permits himself. James Bond is a man hardly suited for inaction, and now he’s come upon a foe he can’t simply shoot or beat the shit out of. It must be, in its own way, terrifying for him.

When the doctor asks whether he wants anyone to be informed of his condition, voice so gently sympathetic that Q wishes he could just _make him shut up_ , he simply shrugs, oddly warmed by the feeling of Bond tensing a little on his behalf – the agent knows full well that his parents are long gone and his one remaining relative, his brother, has proven over and over again that he couldn’t care less what happens to him. Q had never been bothered by the need to lose his real name on becoming Quartermaster. In fact, it had probably been more of a relief than anything else.

The doctor wants to say something more, but Q is quite insistently sure that that is all for now, since he wants nothing more than to get _out_ of medical again as fast as possible. It’s not as if he won’t be spending far too much time there soon anyway. They leave with a pointy reminder that the next check-up is in a week, barring unforeseen complications, to which he simply nods along to beat a quick retreat around James.

When the agent catches up to him he looks almost amused. “And here I thought I was the only one who loathes medical.”

“Well, what you don’t know…” Q starts airily, and then has to duck for cover when James raises his hand to swat at the back of his head.

“Cheeky brat.”

Q grins, thankful for the excuse to stop thinking uncharitable thoughts about ruddy doctors, sodding medical, and poxy illnesses. “You know you love it.”

Next to him James is quiet a little too long following that statement, making Q’s grin fall away as quickly as it had appeared. Whatever James says next, it’s too quiet for Q to make out clearly, though it sounds suspiciously like a sighed ‘yes’ – though that could as well be his wishful thinking.

*

If M sends James on fewer missions – they don’t stop completely, after all he’s still the best of the best – neither of them says anything about it. MI6 doesn’t deal in open gratitude. Where clandestine is a necessity out in the field, it’s an unspoken rule at HQ. It might’ve been the old M who’d said that emotions usually only end up overcomplicating things. Actually, it probably _had_ been her.

*

However much Q would like to deny it, his condition visibly deteriorates during the following weeks. He gets so used to the sight of blood, his _own_ blood, that he sometimes reflects, when he’s feeling more maudlin than usual even, that he might as well be field agent and at least get the adrenaline boost of getting shot at too, since it wouldn’t make much of a difference (though James assures him that gushing blood from gunshot wounds is quite different from having it come out of your mouth, and that he probably isn’t missing out on much on that front).

In general, James ends up babysitting him more and more – and proves surprisingly good at it.

Holding Q’s head while he vomits up blood and bile into the toiled one day (unfortunately not as isolated an event as they both would like it to be), James even whispers sweet nothings that Q hadn’t known were in his vocabulary, let alone something the hardened agent would be willing to say out loud, _ever_.

Resting his face on the cool porcelain rim when the worst has passed, Q does his best to direct a thankful smile at James, though it probably turns out rather wan.

“Who would’ve thought you’d make such a great nursemaid, James.”

James snorts. “You know me, Q, hidden depths.” He eyes Q critically. “Alright now?”

Q ignores the question – after all what can he say to that? – and comments instead, “You do know that they’re already discussing who to appoint as the new Quartermaster, right? I won’t be able to keep the name for much longer.”

He’s mainly avoided thinking about this so far – being Q is so much a part of him that he has no idea how to _stop_ – but lately the issue’s been encroaching on his thoughts more and more. Most things he wants to forget tend to do that lately.

“You’ll always be Q too me,” James says without hesitation, voice laced with a steel that could break nations, if he put his mind to it. The hand that isn’t stopping Q from slumping on the cold tiles comes to rest at the base of Q’s neck, a warm, soothing weight.  Taking note of Q’s continuing tension, he asks quietly, “Do you _want_ me to call you something else?”

“No,” Q admits softly, barely resisting the urge to simply close his eyes against the cool whiteness filling his vision. “No, I don’t. But just in case…”

(Just in case James actually wants to take care of his funeral arrangements. Or maybe just because Q wants him to know.)

He’s silent for a moment, contemplating what he’s about to do and all it encompasses. “My name is Aidan. Aidan Percival Lowsley, if you must know.”

At James’ incredulous look, he says, not feeling defensive in the slightest, “My parents might’ve been a smidge old fashioned.”

James only groans. “Oh god, I think I might have a fetish for dark-haired beauties with pretentious names.”

But that night, when they lie side by side in the dark, he whispers ‘fire’ as he brushes a tender kiss onto Q’s forehead.

*

Q is permanently shut away in medical five weeks after the first diagnosis. Rationally he knows that this is not someone shifting him off or trying to get rid of him, but it still feels that way, even if the truth of the matter is that he’s become too sick to stay in his apartment and needs more care than James can give him, even when he’s there.

It doesn’t change the amount of time he can still be useful, helping MI6 with his laptop. It doesn’t change the amount of time James spends at his bedside. It doesn’t even change his condition. But it still makes his situation feel all the more real, now that he’s surrounded by hospital walls all around the clock and is barely strong enough to make it to the bathroom himself.

Depression is, cheesy and over the top as it might sound, only kept at bay because of James. For most of his life Q had thought being alone an advantage, yet now he finds this… attachment to be the thing that keeps him going.

At least his mind is still his own.

*

“Why are you still here?” Q asks one day, looking at his trembling hand precariously wrapped around a spoon. The soup keeps sloshing over, and nearly nothing arrives in his mouth. “Why don’t you get out while you still can?”

The question has been haunting him, despite (or maybe because of) the fact that James had shown no indication of leaving; the only truly important one left, really. And he’s had a lot of time to think.

James’ hands are warm against his as he steadies the next spoonful to guide the food into Q’s mouth.

“For a genius, you can be quite the tosser,” he says, and is gone before Q can do more than blink. He looks at the now vacated chair, blinks again, and slowly releases a breath.

Oh.

James Bond has been saying ‘I love you’ for the longest while now and Q _hadn’t noticed_ (well, to be fair, he had noticed something, just not _that_ , not outside his dreams). It’s entirely possible that he’s been doing the same, and not noticed that either.

When James comes back, Q apologizes the best way he can, with an honest smile and a soft request for James to join him, which the agent obliges without unnecessary comment. It makes for a cramped snuggle, but being able to relax against James is more than worth it – as is waking up to a familiar body next to him again.

Nothing much changes after that, except maybe that Q feels a little bit happier, as much as it is possible, and also lonelier whenever James is gone on a mission. He doesn’t think he imagines James’ increasing reluctance whenever M calls him out.

*

He doesn’t mention his loneliness to James, but as it turns out, he doesn’t have to.

After returning from his latest assignment in Mumbai, James only takes one look at the quiet ball of misery that is Q before 1) rather lengthily reassuring him that he’s back and in one piece and 2) turning up in his hospital room – his new home, he thinks bitterly –  the next day, a large glass bowl in his arms.

“Binky!”

Q reflexively brightens.

“I still can’t believe you named your pet goldfish after Death’s horse,” James grumbles, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips. However much he might deny it, he loves Binky, really.

“And _I_ still can’t believe that you read Pratchett novels, so I think we’re even,” Q counters, like he always does (they have this discussion nearly every time James comes over to his apartment, ever since the agent’s gaze had zoned in on his beloved pet the first time).

James just shrugs eloquently. “What can I say, I like my satire.”

As long as he can still move from his own volition, Q feeds Binky once a day. Whenever he feels too tired and James is there, he does it instead, posing quite the incongruous picture as he drizzles small amounts of fish flakes into the water. Sometimes Q forgets and James is gone, but Binky miraculously proves too stubborn to die over and over again – Q muses that she would probably make her namesake proud.

*

Sometimes, more and more often, James sits at his bedside and simply reads to him.

(The first time he takes out a well-worn copy of Keat’s poems, Q nearly starts laughing. Hidden depths indeed.

“Not all of my refinement is an act, Q,” James says, in what might’ve passed as a snobbish tone of voice if the corners of his lips hadn’t tilted up tellingly.

He sobers then, passing a worn hand over the cover almost reverently. “When I was very young my mother used to read to me when I was sick. It’s one of the few memories I still retain of that time.”

Wordlessly Q covers his hand with his own.)

They go from Keats, to Cummings, to Tennyson (though James never reads the passage M had quoted during that last trial, which had then quickly become something like an unofficial motto at MI6), to Frost. He’s always careful not to choose ones concerning death – there’s no need for the reminder. It’s no hardship listening to James’ slightly rough but pleasant voice, letting himself be whisked away into the minds of some of the greatest wielders of words.

Sometimes it’s so soothing he falls asleep after only one poem, sometimes he listens for hours on an end, until James has talked himself hoarse.

Q often wishes he could keep these memories for longer, than he knows will ultimately be possible for him.

*

He doesn’t want to die.

(James is gone again.)

He thinks he might, possibly, be depressed after all.

*

He’s watching Doctor Who to pass the time and Rory’s dying _again_ and he can’t manage to recall why he thought it was a good idea to watch that particular TV show.

(Even after getting out of the pit of depression that had had him neither wanting nor caring to move after James’ return, it hasn’t really got much easier.)

He only realizes he’s losing bits and pieces of time again when he blinks and Amy is suddenly weeping on the screen and James sits in the chair next to his bed. He turns the TV off with a decisive click.

“What are you going to do when I’m gone?” he asks, another question he’s been wanting to pose, but the time never seemed right. Still doesn’t, but he’s been running from it long enough. He figures they both have.

James’ eyes are frighteningly blank when he replies, without hesitation, “What I always do.”

Q can’t help but shiver. He knows better than most how demanding fieldwork is, especially of James Bond who’s had too many close shaves to keep track of (twenty-one in the time Q has known him alone) and the agent isn’t getting any younger. _It’s a young men’s game_. Without Q anchoring him, pulling him back home, even his loyalty to Queen and country isn’t going to be enough.

He doesn’t say anything, what _could_ he say? _I don’t want you to die because of me. I don’t want you to throw the rest of your life away._ James had made his choice a long time ago.

Q doesn’t bring up the topic again. There’s nothing he can do anyway.

*

 _Abandonment issues_ , it says in James’ file, just below _trust issues_ and _childhood trauma_. The explanation is backed by a clipped on photo of a beautiful, dark-haired woman.

The first time Q read the file (noting with equal measures of amusement and horror that much of it was only available on _paper_ ), he perused it due to professional interest, researching 007. When Bond had become James, Q had gone through the impressively thick pile again, hoping to avoid any obvious pitfalls.

It doesn’t take him long to figure out which promise he should make himself, and indirectly James. _Do not leave him_.

Q has never before set himself a goal that he couldn’t achieve. He shouldn’t have started now. It doesn’t matter that he couldn’t have foreseen this, it doesn’t matter that it isn’t really his fault. All that matters is that he’s going to break his promise, that he’s going leave the man who needs him the most and no one will be there to pick up the inevitable pieces. Q might not know everything there is to know about fear, but he does know one type: fear for someone else.

*

“Do you believe in life after death, James?”

(Good grief, is he ever maudlin.)

“No.” There’s no hesitation in his answer. “And I wouldn’t be a good agent if I did.”

 _Or an alive one_ , remains unspoken. And that makes sense too. The harsh reality of any secret agent’s life is enough to make whatever notion of pleasant afterlife one could possibly have (personally Q has always found the mere idea of ninety-nine virgins and rivers of honey rather preposterous), far too tempting. And the other side of the coin, well, for any true believer hell would loom after every kill – a distraction that no agent can afford, which makes it less than surprising that religion in general  is rare among operatives of the SIS. An opium for the masses, indeed, one that passes them by. Q had distanced himself from society early on, and he suspects James had never really been part of it in the first place, both outsiders in this brave (alien) new world, never mind that Q, in some ways, is progress incarnate.

Religion? No. The comfort it could bring? No. Pain at the thought that he will be saying good-bye to James forever quite soon indeed? _Yes_.

*

There’s a mirror hanging to the right of his bed, small and innocuous. Whenever he turns his head, he can see his mirror image, sunken eyes and waxen skin, look back at him, mocking and condemning at the same time.

He tries to keep his gaze away, but whatever he does, sooner or later his eyes end up on the mirror again, whether simply from some kind of morbid curiosity or a deeper need to at least keep track of all the changes the illness is wreaking on him, he can’t say. Sometimes he stares at himself for minutes at an end, unable to look away, unable to keep his thoughts away from his decay.

It happens once when James is there, sitting right next to him in that horrible, plastic chair. Not even his presence can snap Q out of it, until a warm hand finds its way to his chin and gently but insistently forces his head around to look at James’ face – indubitably a far more pleasant sight, despite the worry in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t do that,” James says quietly, face serious (though his face is always serious these days). There’s understanding in his gaze, maybe too much, and Q’s thoughts flitter to a lone, forsaken Double-0 agent, passing judgement on himself in front of a sprung, duty mirror, unbidden. Perhaps that agent would see a scar on his left shoulder, and a bullet hole in his chest.

The words tumble out before he can stop them. “I can’t stop. I’ve _tried_. I just can’t.”

James doesn’t say anything in reply then, but the next time Q wakes up, the mirror is gone, and with it every other dispensable reflective surface in the room. (Binky stays, however she finds herself in a new home made of duller glass.)

And people say James Bond doesn’t have a heart. It’s the first time Q finds himself smiling since… well, he hasn’t kept track, but it feels like an eternity.

*

He stops trying to track all the changes in his body. He knows what’s happening, seeing it as well seems needless torture now that the mirror is gone. Instead he finds himself noticing more and more how James is changing. The deepening lines around his eyes, their dulling shine, the exhaustion that hangs around him in an almost tangible cloud. What years of high-risk missions hadn’t managed, watching Q wither away has wrought in a few weeks (or has it been months? Time is so hard to tell now). His lover is running himself into the ground and Q can only watch, helpless in the knowledge that he’s not only the one causing it, but also unable to stop doing so. Q’s always leaving him an escape open (has _sworn_ himself he will always leave that option), but James simply _refuses_ to leave, finding a new application for his famed stubbornness in staying near Q whenever possible. He supposes, a little ruefully, that this must be what it feels like to be the recipient of James Bond’s unwavering loyalty. England must feel special.

The number of missions M deems important enough to send _the_ 007 on, keeps dwindling. Q knows it’s not a performance issue. James never lets _anything_ impair his job (and Q is fiercely glad that this, at least, is not another thing he has to add to his ever-growing list of ‘ _How I fail James Bond on a daily basis’_ ). He supposes, in his own way, M is being kind – or possibly being blackmailed by Eve, who’s apparently taken it as her personal task to ensure James’ and his happiness as much as she can under the circumstances (the tale of Sisyphus springs to mind, but he wouldn’t dare mention that to her face, besides she isn’t the type to be toiling in a Greek myth, but more alike to James in this regard as she’d most likely be causing untold mayhem instead of meekly accepting her sentence).

The day the doctor tells him he has about two weeks left to live, he asks Eve to look after James when Q’s gone, but she only shakes her head and replies, “If you think I can manage that, your faith in me is astoundingly unfounded,” which says as much about her pragmatic realism as it does about James’ stubborn disregard for his own safety.

James isn’t there for that particular announcement, and Q finds himself thankful for his absence for the first time. Maybe it makes him a coward, but he doesn’t want to see the look James’ face when he hears about this too literal deadline.

When James does come back from his mission, it’s Eve who tells him, not Q. (He didn’t ask her to.) Stories about the following utter destruction of training room five will far outlive both of them. The Tale of the Double-0 and his Quartermaster. A drama with a Shakespearean feel, darkness with little rays of sunshine, rare and in between. Myths always have to start somewhere.

*

One week left to go, James says, his smile morphed into something twisted and bitter, “Only the truly good die early.”

Q wants to gainsay him, after all _James_ is still alive, but he can’t find the strength.

(He wonders if James Bond will be there when he draws his last breath. The notion would be equally comforting and horrifying if he still had the capacity. His mind is too fragmented to manage much more than whisper in the dark, _James_ , and sometimes simply _no_ , and even rarer _Why does it have to happen like this_ and still _I don’t want to die_. But always _James_. They say acceptance follows in the wake of depression, but more than the perfunctory ‘not railing at life, the universe, and everything anymore’ he has called bullshit on that theory long ago. How is any of this _acceptable_?)

*

He informs James in shaky, spindly handwriting that he wants his whole name on the gravestone, no discussion. James doesn’t even manage a smile at his absurdity.

*

Q finally dies on a cold Thursday. James Bond breathes his last during an even colder Wednesday night. He outlives his late Quartermaster for exactly a year and one week.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to comment/rant/have a crying fit/throw something at me (though I'd prefer it to be something soft). All kinds of feedback are welcome.


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